


See Straight Through

by Loz



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: (kind of), Angst and Humor, Canonical Character Death, Ghost Sex, Grief/Mourning, Happy Ending, M/M, Masturbation, Mildly Dubious Consent, allusions to character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-02
Updated: 2014-10-02
Packaged: 2018-02-19 15:08:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2392847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loz/pseuds/Loz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scott loves these moments as much as he hates them. Loves being with Stiles even if it is a facsimile of what they used to have, nothing but a patchwork of past experiences and conversations served up to remind him of what he’s lost. And he loves his other friends, his pack, he does, but they’re not the same and they never could be. </p><p>(Or; the one where Stiles sort of haunts Scott.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	See Straight Through

**Author's Note:**

  * For [snoopypez](https://archiveofourown.org/users/snoopypez/gifts), [vulcains](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vulcains/gifts).



> Thanks to the ever-wonderful [Brook](https://twitter.com/annoyingbrook) for hand-holding and Ameri-picking. See end notes for why this is tagged Mildly Dubious Consent.

It’s always during the day. Early morning or early afternoon, when sunlight casts long shadows and dust plays in its strands. Scott’s used to the fine hairs on the back of his neck prickling, his chest going inexplicably tight. It’s his body’s way of tricking him, convincing him of things that can’t be true. He figures this is when he’s most suggestible, when he’s most likely to be feeling the burden of his loneliness.

He doesn’t startle anymore, doesn’t turn swiftly. It doesn’t matter how he reacts, Stiles will be there all the same, pretending to lean against the wall, or pick at Scott’s comforter, or throw miscellaneous objects. He gazes at him consideringly, like he doesn’t think Scott will see him, and always seems surprised when he does. 

Funny that a figment of Scott’s imagination can feign surprise and do it so deftly too, head arching back and eyes going wide, staccato flail of hands and jerk of a knee. 

“Yo, Scotty, how’re you doing?” Stiles says, slowly, sounding unsure. 

At first, Scott never bothered answering, because what was the point, but maybe it’s therapeutic, listening to his voice echo, because as the days went by he found himself starting to speak, to respond. It’s supposed to be a bad sign when you start talking to yourself, but he’s actually finding it easier to keep his temper, to hold his back straight when sometimes all he wants to do is yell and crumple. 

“I’m still going,” he says, because he doesn’t want to say, ‘I’m pretty shitty’, but he also doesn’t want to lie.

“That’s kinda cruel, referencing my inert state? Dude, I know you’re pissed at me, but low blow,” Stiles says, shaking his head like he’s mentally tsking. 

“I wasn’t --- that isn’t what I meant,” Scott says, frowning when Stiles gives him a smug, sarcastic wink and proceeds to pretend to lie on Scott’s bed. 

The reason it’s pretend is that he doesn’t exactly succeed, floating about three inches off the surface, ankles crossed and shoulders looking uncomfortably hunched. Scott can see the deep maroon of his pillowcase through Stiles’ head and it unsettles him, so he turns back to his archaic laptop and reads the last sentence he wrote for his history essay three times. 

The thing about this is that sometimes Scott desperately wants to believe that this apparition of Stiles is somehow real, that he isn’t making him up inside his head, but he thinks he’s clutching, grasping at straws because he can’t handle the fact Stiles --- _he can’t handle being alone_. 

“You think if you ignore me I’ll just disappear?” Stiles asks, bitter tone and huffed out sigh. “Because you’re right, and I really wish you weren’t.”

Scott rubs his knuckles against the hollow of his right eye, rests his head on his hand after. He’s so _weary_. 

“Sorry. I gotta finish this essay. It’s due tomorrow and worth, like, a third of my grade.”

“Let me see. I miss our study buddy moments.”

Scott flicks his gaze back to the bed, watches as Stiles swirls his translucent hands in the air. “We never had any.”

“I miss thinking that they could one day happen.”

“Yeah, me too.” 

“You’re the reason they never did. ‘Stiles, you chew too loudly, I can’t concentrate. Stiles, can’t you focus on one thing instead of eight assignments? No, Stiles, I don’t know where you can buy a T-shirt with a picture of AT-ATs fucking, what the hell .’”

Scott squirms in his seat, hates the truth of what’s being said. “I had no idea I’m such an asshole.”

“That’s because I usually cancel you out. Also, to be fair, I can be pretty distracting.”

Scott snorts, gestures at his screen. “Weren’t you supposed to be helping me?”

Stiles is close, suddenly, craning over his shoulder. The chill down Scott’s back makes him shiver. “You didn’t mention that you have a total of 133 words.”

“778 characters including spaces,” Scott replies, trying to sound impressive and failing dismally. 

Stiles sighs. “Okay. I can work with this. But then I demand you go get ice cream and eat as much as physically possible. If I’m gonna live vicariously through you, I need some fun.”

“I don’t see how watching me eat ice cream could be fun?”

Stiles blinks at him. “You’re willfully misinterpreting me. It’s not the act of me watching y--- you know what, I’m not gonna explain. I guess watching you lick stuff is pretty entertaining in and of itself.” Stiles leers and Scott rubs at his head again, groans a little. His subconscious is evil. 

Because this is it, he loves these moments as much as he hates them. Loves being with Stiles even if it is a facsimile of what they used to have, nothing but a patchwork of past experiences and conversations served up to remind him of what he’s lost. And he loves his other friends, his pack, he does, but they’re not the same and they never could be. 

*

Malia spends more time with her dad now. Not Peter, wherever Derek and Braeden took him, thank God, but her real dad, the one who cares about her. Scott wishes this didn’t also mean she spends a lot less time with the pack, but he gets it, he knows why. A week after it happened, Malia’d climbed through his window and buried herself in his bed. 

“It’s my fault,” she’d said tonelessly, “Because I broke up with him.”

“It’s no one’s fault,” Scott had replied, joining her under his abuela’s quilt and wrapping his arms around her. “Stiles was protecting us, all of us. You really think he would’ve let us die if you two were still together?”

“He might’ve had more to live for.”

“I don’t think that’s true, Malia.”

She’d growled at him and he’d petted her head. “I mean, obviously, being with you must be the best and he _was_ heartbroken, but I don’t think that spurred him on to self-sacrifice. This wasn’t a new thing for him, not a sudden change. Stiles has always put himself into the line of fire. It’s who he is.”

“Was,” Malia had whispered.

“Is,” Scott had returned. 

He’d held her for a while, until she got restless and started kicking him in the shins. 

“You’re asking for a cuddle war,” he’d warned her, “With added tickles.”

“I’d like to see you try,” she’d returned.

He’d squeezed, tickled and jostled her about, until halfway through she shifted into a coyote and snapped at his fingers. He’d let her go, laughing, and she’d escaped back out the window.

They haven’t had much time alone since, but Malia looks at him sometimes like she knows he was lying when he said what happened to Stiles was no one’s fault, like she can tell he knows it’s his. She doesn’t say anything, though. She backs him up when he needs her to, tells him he’s being an idiot when he wishes she wouldn’t. 

Kira and Liam are a little more ‘I Will Follow You into the Dark’ in their support, which Scott appreciates, but is also annoyed by, because they don’t seem to understand that he can’t and won’t let that happen again. He couldn’t handle it. It causes some friction, but Scott tries really hard not to let it break them.

“You’ve been quiet lately,” Kira says after school one day, gazing at him with sweet intensity. 

He brushes it off. “I’m always quiet.”

“Quieter,” she amends. “Which is almost silent, most days.”

Scott takes a deep breath. “I’m doing my best, Kira.”

She pats his arm. “I know. But you don’t have to do it alone. You can talk to us, you know?”

_‘Oh, but why would I do that, when I have my imaginary best friend to talk to?’ _he asks himself. It even sounds a little like Stiles’ voice.__

__“I know,” he says out loud instead._ _

__He makes mom dinner and takes it to the hospital, follows her around on her shift because he can’t spend another night sitting still._ _

__*_ _

__He’s halfway through _Attack of the Clones_ when there’s an indignant squawk off to his left. Stiles is pointing at his tablet, eyes narrowed. _ _

__“You traitor. How long has this been going on?”_ _

__“Approximately 70 minutes.”_ _

__“Scott Ricardo Delgado McCall, you know exactly what I mean.”_ _

__Scott told himself a while ago he wouldn’t argue with himself, but he can’t help but quirk an eyebrow. “Ricardo? Really?” He scoots over on the bed and gestures for Stiles to join him. “I saw the _Star Wars_ episode of _Phineas and Ferb_ by accident at the hospital and it got me curious,” he explains. _ _

__“ _That’s_ what got you curious?” Stiles asks back, gingerly moving until he’s floating next to Scott. He’s actually an inch lower than normal. If Scott couldn’t see the rest of his room through his shoulder, he’d almost be able to believe he was there. “So, before you resume play, what is your middle name?”_ _

__“I don’t have one. Don’t you remember? It’s one of the first things we ever learned about each other. We’re both middle-name-less.”_ _

__“If I said that, I was totally lying to you. My middle name’s Zygmunt.”_ _

__“No, it’s not.”_ _

__“It is, ask my dad. Now, shut up and press play. Anakin’s about to find out that his mom’s been taken by Tuskens.”_ _

__*_ _

__Scott has a week from hell. Three beloved pets die at the animal clinic, his mom is forced into double shifts, he has two pop quizzes, plus four assignments due, and Derek says he’s been hearing weird noises in the Preserve. He feels like he’s going to explode out of his skin and it isn’t even the weekend yet._ _

__“When was the last time you relaxed?” Stiles asks shortly after he’s asked how his dad’s doing, staring at him dubiously as he thumbs through the bestiary for the ninth time._ _

__“Watching _Star Wars_ , with you, last week.”_ _

__“I didn’t ask when was the last time you were entertained beyond belief, I asked when you last relaxed. When was the last time your body was all loose and your mind clear and your hormones spiking?”_ _

__“Are you asking me what I think you’re asking me?”_ _

__“When was the last time you were a dirty, dirty little boy, Scott?”_ _

__“Dude!”_ _

__Stiles flashes him a one-time grin, looking mischievous in a way he hasn’t since they were fourteen. “I’m messing with you. It’s a valid question, though.”_ _

__“It’s been a while,” Scott grudgingly confesses._ _

__“I think it should be one of your top priorities for tonight. Your mom’s working, isn’t she? Do whatever you need to do to set the scene, get comfortable. Draw it out, make it an event.”_ _

__Scott looks down at the bestiary again, can feel heat rising up his chest and neck. “Right. Thanks. A++ masturbation advice from my best friend. Always appreciated.”_ _

__“Hah, there’s more where that came from. You want me to stay and guide you?”_ _

__Scott has given up on ever understanding his brain. He figures it must be part of the healing process. Like if he looks at their relationship from another angle, maybe he’ll be able to move on and accept he’ll never have anything like them again. Or maybe he’s fucked up from over-stress, or weirdly horny and didn’t realize until now. Perhaps this has always been something lurking with him, desperate to get out._ _

__“Sure, why not?” he says with a shrug._ _

__“What, for real?” Stiles asks, almost gasping in shock. Scott has no clue anymore. Stiles squints at him. “Is this some kind of gay chicken thing, because that doesn’t really work when one of the participants is bi. Or non-corporeal.”_ _

__“I can’t think of a reason against it,” he says. _‘Beyond it being completely disrespectful.’_ he thinks. _ _

__“Since when has that been your sole basis for decision-making?” Stiles says. He makes as if he’s going to ruffle his hand through Scott’s hair, curls his fingers into a fist. “I should go.”_ _

__It’s the first time the apparition has signaled that it’s going to leave. Usually it simply vanishes. It makes Scott laugh, that his subconscious is so twisted it’s now playing with him. He waves a salute and stares at the empty spot where the vision of Stiles stood, watching dust motes swirl in the air. Cockblocked by his own brain._ _

__Later that night, he jerks off in the shower, but it’s cursory and doesn’t feel like anything at all. He’s going through the paces, nothing more. All he can think about is how much better it’d be with Stiles’ voice telling him what to do, his gaze steady and focused._ _

__He thinks he’s officially cracked._ _

__*_ _

__He doesn’t see his imaginary reconstruction of Stiles for a week and a half, but that’s the worst thing to happen to Scott in that time. In a surprising run of good luck, it turns out that the noises in the Preserve are apparently harmless, he gets B’s on the pop quizzes and he successfully finishes all of his assignments. Also, lacrosse season starts again and Liam makes co-captain._ _

__They go out and celebrate; Scott, Liam, Mason, Kira, Malia and Lydia. It’s the first time they’ve all been together in a long time and it’s… it’s good and Scott kind of hates it when he realizes he’s enjoying himself, when he notices he can get by without Stiles at his side._ _

__“You okay, man? You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Mason murmurs, leaning in._ _

__Scott laughs. There’s nothing else to do. “I’m fine,” he lies._ _

__That night, of course, Stiles appears. It’s the first time he’s shown up in the dark. He paces around the room as Scott slips out of his jeans and into his pajamas._ _

__“You gonna settle anytime soon or should I turn the other way?” Scott asks._ _

__He feels bitter towards the apparition in a way he hasn’t before._ _

__Stiles jerks and swivels, opening his mouth wide on a silent yelp._ _

__“I’ll settle,” he says, hovering on over to the computer chair. He drums his hands on his knees. “You had a good night?”_ _

__“Yeah. No. It was all right until I realized I was okay without you there. Now I feel guilty.”_ _

__“You don’t have to feel guilty over living your life, Scott, Jesus.”_ _

__“I miss you, but it isn’t all the time,” Scott whispers, tucking his head against his knees and sighing. “When I realize that, I feel like the biggest asshole. It’s Allison all over again. I ask myself how many more people I love have to give up their lives before mine stops having meaning, before it’s too much. And the scary thing is, I don’t know the answer. “_ _

__“I want you to keep living and enjoying life. I’ve only ever wanted you to be happy,” Stiles says, sounding like he’s been hollowed out. “Please don’t feel like you have to be miserable to honor me. That’s the last thing I want.”_ _

__Scott looks up and stares at Stiles. He doesn’t know how to respond, can’t think of what to say. Part of him wants to thank him and another wants to shout in his face for suggesting he should accept what’s happened and move on._ _

__That’s it, that’s the truth of it, he doesn’t _want_ to move on. Not only is he incapable of grieving properly, but he doesn’t want the opportunity. At least when grief consumes him, he feels he’s paying his due._ _

__Stiles stands once more and floats over. He reaches out and ghosts a hand over Scott’s jaw and Scott feels the shiver down to his bones. In the darkness of the room Stiles has an ethereal glow and his irises look golden, like they contain the universe. His expression is warm and loving and broken and it tears Scott apart._ _

__“You need to sleep,” Stiles says, with a hush in his voice. He drags his fingers in the air, clearly telling Scott to shuffle down under the covers._ _

__“Will you be here when I wake up?” Scott asks, wondering if for once he could control his wayward mind._ _

__There’s a beat, a sigh and then, “Yeah, buddy, you still got me.”_ _

__*_ _

__Stiles isn’t there in the morning._ _

__*_ _

__His mom orders him home midday on Saturday, demanding that if he wants to stay indoors, he should do so cleaning the kitchen. He thinks she was joking or speaking in metaphors, but he goes and cleans the kitchen anyway. It takes longer than he expected it to. He didn’t know they’d let the dishes pile up. Not to mention the sticky gunk over one of the counters. He’s mopping the floor to Anaconda when there’s a muffled laugh behind him._ _

__“I always forget you have the least rhythm of anyone we know,” Stiles says, wonderingly._ _

__“What, you can do better?”_ _

__“You challenging me to a dance-off?”_ _

__“That doesn’t seem fair. You’re not bound by the laws of physics.”_ _

__“Neither are you.”_ _

__Scott props the mop up against the wall. “Okay, then, give it your best shot.”_ _

__This is easily the second weirdest thing his imagination’s brought him, but he doesn’t regret it for a second as they dance around each other. Stiles has always been a surprisingly good dancer, though also always frenetic. Unlike Scott, he finds the beat like it drives through him, body swaying in perfect time. Scott’s always aware he’s out of sync, but he doesn’t know how to fix it. When they were thirteen, Stiles attempted to show him, bracketing his hips and swishing him from side to side, but it ended up with them falling over each other and him accidentally kneeing Stiles in the groin._ _

__Stiles shocks them both when he glides through a wall with an over-achieving moonwalk. Scott attempts a backflip, but his ankle catches one of the dining chairs and he lands on his ass. Stiles bursts out in raucous laughter and Scott realizes he hasn’t heard him laugh in _so long_. _ _

__“Oh my God, it’s been years,” Stiles says, mid-chortle, echoing his thoughts perfectly._ _

__It reminds Scott, brings him up short. This hasn’t really been a fun fifteen minutes between friends. He doesn’t get that anymore. He picks up his mop again, sweeps the floor a second time. Stiles goes uncharacteristically quiet. The silence stretches between them, drowning everything else out._ _

__“I was thinking about the other week,” Stiles says, when Scott’s finished and walking up the stairs to his room. “I guess I was mostly wondering if you still wanna do it.”_ _

__Scott doesn’t know what he’s talking about for a moment --- until he does, until he pieces it together. He stands in the middle of his room, looks Stiles up and down._ _

__“That depends. Is it actually going to happen this time, or is this more mental torture?”_ _

__“Torture seems a little harsh. But also like you’re enthusiastic at the prospect of it happening. So what I wanna know is, hypothetically, would you wanna do this if I were corporeal?”_ _

__“Hypothetically, would you?”_ _

__“Yeah, I always did, but I thought you didn’t, so I never asked.”_ _

__It’s vanity, Scott thinks. He’s not content with this being a one time thing, built from idle curiosity, he needs it to be long-standing desire. And part of him, the too honest part, the one he’s ignored for a long time, realizes that this isn’t new._ _

__“I would,” he says. It feels like a confession too far. “How do you want me?” he continues, because he’s resigned himself to this now, to wanting this, even if he’s twisted and it’s insulting to what they once were._ _

__Stiles seems to take a deep swallow, casts his eyes down Scott’s form. “Would you feel more or less comfortable naked?”_ _

__Scott thinks about it, wondering why he needs options when he just wants to be told what to do. “More,” he decides, before stripping off his T-shirt, unbuttoning his jeans._ _

__Stiles now hovers cross-legged on the end of his bed, watching, rapt. It isn’t as awkward as Scott thought it might be as he peels down his jeans and kicks them off, hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his boxers._ _

__“No, leave them on for now,” Stiles says, urgent. “You should sit down, loosen some of your tension.”_ _

__“And how do you suggest I do that?”_ _

__“I always kinda rub myself.” Stiles moves his hands in circles over his torso, cocking his head to one side._ _

__Scott mirrors him with a raised eyebrow._ _

__

__“Not like that --- slower,” Stiles demands. “Drag your fingers lightly over your skin, feel the brush of them. Learn what excites you, what brings you to the point where you need more.”_ _

__Scott does as he’s told, glad to be directed for once. It feels good, teasing in a way he hasn’t allowed himself. His fingers travel down his abs, scratching into his happy trail, then back up his side, towards his pecs._ _

__“That’s it. Touch yourself for me, drag your thumb over your nipple, play with it,” Stiles says, tone going richer._ _

__The time to feel self-conscious has long passed. Scott lets out a moan when his nipples peak and harden against the tweak of his fingers. He hasn’t done this much before, didn’t see the point, but he discovers it adds a whole new sensation. He settles a little lower in bed, gazes at Stiles as he feels his shorts tent. Stiles is staring at him, mouth open, translucent skin looking somehow pinker across his cheeks and lips._ _

__“You’re doing so well, Scotty. Does it feel good? I bet it does. You look like you could use more, though. Am I right?”_ _

__Scott nods, breathes out thickly, awaits his new orders._ _

__“Rub your dick with the heel of your palm. No, over your shorts, that’s right. Can you feel how hard you’re getting? Yeah, you’re hard and thick for me, aren’tcha?”_ _

__Scott reflexively curls his fingers around the outline of his cock, feeling as the material of his shorts dampens. His pulse is thrumming in his ears, his breath is tight in his chest, and he can’t lie, a significant reason for that is the way Stiles is looking at him._ _

__“What’s next?” he asks, imagining for a second that it’s Stiles’ hands on him, that he has no control whatsoever._ _

__“I wanna watch you like this.”_ _

__“It’s not enough, Stiles.”_ _

__“It totally could be, though. It’d be hot, watching you come in your pants just because I’m telling you to,” Stiles says with a smile that’s as devilish as it is sweet. “But okay, you can take them off if you wanna deprive me of that sight.”_ _

__Scott has a moment of indecision. Here, in this moment, he wants to be the best, wants to do everything right, but now he isn’t sure how to go about it. He thinks his expression might be pleading, because Stiles clicks against the roof of his mouth, cranes forward._ _

__“Nah, you’re right. Take them off. I wanna see you.”_ _

__It isn’t a tremble in his arms as he arches back and pushes his shorts down, but it’s close. It’s the tingle of muscles that have been overworked, the rush of awareness that they exist. His heart thumps louder in his chest as he lies back down, shoulders against the headboard. His cock slaps up against his abs, precome smearing against his happy trail. Stiles doesn’t look away for a second._ _

__“You have the prettiest dick I’ve ever seen.”_ _

__Scott laughs. “Seen many dicks?”_ _

__“A few.” Stiles frowns, bites at his lower lip. “Can I try to touch you?”_ _

__“Yeah,” Scott says. “I’d like that.”_ _

__Stiles’ fingers curl around the head of his cock and his expression shifts from excited to frustrated. There’s a swoop in Scott’s stomach as chilled air licks against his skin and he could almost believe --- but he’s always had a good imagination._ _

__Stiles lets go, moves back. “Nothing.”_ _

__“I could tell you what it feels like?”_ _

__“Yes, absolutely, do that.”_ _

__Scott places his own hand where Stiles’ had been and strokes experimentally. “It’s like soft and hard all at once. Warm and wet. Feels good to jerk it like this, slow and unhurried. My nerves all kind of jump and zing.”_ _

__“You should speed up a little, thumb at the head of your cock.”_ _

__Scott does as he’s told and yeah, that feels even better. He widens his legs, presses the soles of his feet flat to the bedsheets, tilting up and rocking into his clasp._ _

__“Fuck yes, so beautiful,” Stiles whispers, mock-kneeling on the bed now, close by Scott’s side. “You got any lube?”_ _

__“In the drawer.”_ _

__“Get it.”_ _

__It takes three seconds to get the lube and pop the cap. Another to smear it over his palm and then all over his cock._ _

__“Easier, right? Smoother?” Stiles asks, husky. Scott hums in response. He’s so slick, wet with it. He doesn’t like the scent, would much prefer to be able to smell Stiles’ musk, but it isn’t unbearable. “I was actually thinking we could try something else.”_ _

__Scott’s skin feels on fire, his mind is whirling and he’d agree to anything, _anything_ Stiles wanted. _ _

__“You ever fingered yourself?” Stiles says, like he’s sure the answer’s no._ _

__“A couple times,” Scott replies, nefariously pleased at Stiles’ surprise. “Is that what you wanna see? Me opening myself up for you?”_ _

__Stiles wavers in the air, ducks down, and then surges back up. Scott gets the distinct impression he toppled over. It’s gratifying in the worst way and Scott grins as he fucks up into his fist, flexes simply because he can. He adds more lube to his fingertips, drags his hand down, cups his balls. He gazes at Stiles, waiting._ _

__“You’re perfect like this,” Stiles says, making eye contact for the first time in a while. But he looks plaintive rather than joyous. “I wish I could do this, wish you could feel me.”_ _

__“I’ll pretend,” Scott says, ignoring the choke in his voice, squeezing his eyes shut and dipping his fingers lower. His fingertips glide over his perineum and against his hole. “Keep talking.”_ _

__He half-expects Stiles to disappear again, for this to finish without even a whimper._ _

__“Press gently, that’s it,” Stiles says, voice sounding closer. “Tease yourself. We want this to last.”_ _

__Scott follows his instructions, pressing in and pulling out, his muscles loosening and constricting around him. He always forgets how good this feels until he’s doing it again. Always forgets how to reach the perfect rhythm._ _

__“Hook one finger against your rim, yeah, like that. God, you should see yourself, you’re so pink inside.”_ _

__Scott had stopped stroking his cock, but he returns to it as he begins to fuck one of his fingers in and out of his hole. He’s rougher than he has been in the past, less tentative. He can feel sweat dripping down his forehead, can smell sex in the air, but the only things he concentrates on are Stiles’ voice and the touch of his own hands. He opens himself up incrementally, strokes himself off at the same time._ _

__“Use two fingers now, stretch yourself.”_ _

__Scott tries, but it stings, the burn becoming uncomfortable. He winces. “I don’t think that’ll work.”_ _

__“Too tight? Of course you are. That’s okay, do whatever feels good. You’re doing great, Scotty.”_ _

__Scott takes a couple of deep breaths, tugs his cock quicker, firmer. He nudges at his hole with the second tip of his finger and rolls into the movement until it’s inside. He wants to come, wants release. Stiles keeps urging him with little “yeah”s and “like that”s and if he doesn’t think about it, he can convince himself those are Stiles’ long, thin fingers opening him up, Stiles’ palm sliding warmly against his cock. He wonders if he looks as wrecked as he feels._ _

__There’s a gust of cold against his stomach and Scott suddenly finds himself tensing up, spurting all over his hand. It’s simultaneously the best and worst he’s felt in a long time. He screws his eyes tighter and groans through it, pumping himself until the sensation starts to chafe against oversensitive skin._ _

__“Fuck,” Stiles says, softly._ _

__Scott’s eyes flutter open against his volition and he sees Stiles raking his gaze up and down his body, his hand resting on Scott’s abs._ _

__“I wish you were real,” he says, before he can stop himself. He’s sex-drunk._ _

__“Corporeal, you mean? Yeah, me too.”_ _

__“At all,” Scott amends, smearing his come-covered hand over his bed sheets and resolving to worry about them later._ _

__Stiles’ eyes narrow. “Wait, what? Don’t tell me you still think I’m a product of your imagination?”_ _

__“I’m delusional, not stupid.”_ _

__“Scott, did you only do this because you think I’m part of your fractured psyche?” Stiles asks. There’s anger in his voice. A different kind of passion._ _

__Scott doesn’t want to deal with any more psychological fuckery. He shrugs and lies down, pulls his covers tight._ _

__“I can’t believe you. Go and talk to my dad. Go and ask him about Zygmunt. Or the aunt I’ve never told you about who has a glass eye. Go and find out and then tell me how the fuck you could know those things if I were some cheap imaginary version of myself. And by the way, I would totally tell you to fuck off, but you already did, so I’m just gonna tell you you’re a dick.”_ _

__*_ _

__It nags at Scott. He figures that was the intention, but he can’t stop thinking about it, ever. When he thinks he’s found some peace, the questions arise again. They plague him at school, during work, in the middle of pack meetings, when he’s visiting the hospital. They crash about in his mind when he rides his bike out to town limits, when he skypes Isaac or texts Chris. He can’t seem to escape them and it drives him even more insane._ _

__He avoids his bedroom early morning and early afternoon, ensures he’s as far away as possible._ _

__“It’s all right if you can’t be strong every second of every day,” his mom says one night. “No one can do that, kiddo. Realizing that is part of growing up.”_ _

__“I don’t feel strong any second of any day, though,” Scott returns._ _

__“Then fake it until you do and allow yourself moments to break down.”_ _

__“Have you ever been in a situation where there’s this super easy way to find out the answer to something you’re curious about, but at the same time you don’t wanna ask, because any answer you get is gonna mess you up?”_ _

__His mom shakes her head. “I can’t say I have, no. Is it important?”_ _

__“Yeah.”_ _

__“Have you been delaying asking for a while?”_ _

__“Almost two weeks.”_ _

__“Is it me you have to ask?”_ _

__“No. Stiles’ dad.”_ _

__Melissa gusts out a breath. “I see. ” She rubs his shoulder, pulls him close and gives him a one-armed hug. “You frequently do what’s right, even when no one’s sure what that is. I’m positive you’ll make the right choice here too.”_ _

__Scott’s painfully aware he hasn’t done anything right in way too long._ _

__*_ _

__He hasn’t spoken to Stiles’ dad in approximately a month. He’s seen him, countless times, but whenever he opens his mouth a guilty little voice in the back of his mind tells him to shut it again. Nothing he says will make anything better. Nothing he says would be an adequate apology._ _

__Scott feels like his every nerve is on fire as he approaches John. He wants to back off, run away, but John’s seen him and is giving him a small wave. He smiles sadly at Scott the way Chris does, this shared look of commiseration that has him digging his claws into his thigh to stop himself from asking how they don’t hate him for taking away their children, how they could possibly forgive him for what he’s caused._ _

__“Hi Sheriff,” he says, sitting next to him on hard and uncompromising plastic._ _

__“Scott,” John says, immediately sounding something Scott’s not going to interpret as suspicious, even though it easily could be. “How are you?”_ _

__There isn’t a satisfactory answer to that question. Nothing appropriate to say. He fumbles through, “School’s going well, work’s okay.”_ _

__Scott’s stuck at an impasse. He has one specific piece of knowledge he wants from John, but it’s bizarre and blurting out the question will raise eyebrows. This requires him to cushion his query between other things, but he has absolutely no idea what to talk about. He stares at the opposite wall and listens to the bleep and whir of nearby machines. A couple of minutes pass in silence and he realizes he doesn’t have the mental reserves to jump through whatever hoops are necessary to make this anything other than strange._ _

__“Can I ask you something?” he starts. He sounds anxious even to his own ears._ _

__“Of course, son,” John says, gentle like he’s trying to reassure. It makes Scott fret even more._ _

__He squeezes his hands together until his knuckles feel like they’re about to pop. “Does Stiles have a middle name?”_ _

__John shrugs a shoulder, sighs. “Been wondering like I have if this was predestined?”_ _

__Scott doesn’t know when he stopped breathing, but he has to suck in air._ _

__“Zygmunt,” John continues. “Means victorious protector. Serjiusz Zygmunt Stilinski. I honestly don’t know what Claudia and I were thinking when we were naming our boy. Tradition, I suppose.” He leans in, pats Scott on the back. “Between you and me, my name’s not really John.”_ _

__“I can’t remember,” Scott says, guts twisting up in knots. “Is it your sister or Claudia’s that only has one eye?”_ _

__“Mine. Why the questions? This isn’t about some magical spell attempt is it, because Alan warned us not to interfere and I --- I couldn’t bear it, Scott.”_ _

__“Nothing like that, Sir, I promise,” Scott says. He stands suddenly and almost collapses again, knees feeling too weak to support his body weight. “Thanks for your time.”_ _

__He doesn’t stop when John asks him to, doesn’t slow down when he almost crashes into a cart, doesn’t take a moment to breathe before he’s on his bike and tearing down the road back home._ _

__He feels like an idiot. It doesn’t seem to matter how many different ways he argues with himself, that there were _reasons_ he was ready to accept mental anguish over a supernatural force, that it makes sense he was discounting hope in favor of fatalism, he still can’t quite get over the idea that he showed a lack of trust in Stiles. And that hurts the most. Truthfully, that’s the thing that cuts him up and rends him in two. _ _

__It’s 7pm by the time he gets home; usually too late for Stiles to be lurking. But he’s seen him in the dark once, so maybe he will again. He calls his name over and over. There’s no response. The sensible thing would be to eat dinner, watch a movie or something, go to bed, but Scott hasn’t been sensible in years. He doesn’t feel like eating, he can’t concentrate on a single thing --- preferring instead to attempt too much at once --- and although he lies on his bed at 1 in the morning, he doesn’t fall asleep._ _

__The hours seem interminable. He runs through every conversation he’s had with the apparition --- with _Stiles_ \--- and sees how much evidence there was that he was really there. What if they were able to do something and all this time he’s been a stubborn, narrow-minded jerk? He’d be pissed in Stiles’ position, probably unwilling to talk. What if he never appears again? What if Scott had his chance and blew it? He only just makes it to the bathroom before he’s throwing up, resting his forehead against the toilet seat._ _

__His hackles rise and then there’s Stiles’ voice; near, sympathetic and so welcome. “You doing okay, Scott?” Scott’s terrified he’s going to turn around and it’ll have been a trick._ _

__But he can’t think like that again. There’s that lack of trust. For once, he has to believe._ _

__He flops onto his back, rests against the shower cubicle. “Stiles.”_ _

__Stiles sits on his haunches, surveying him with a concerned frown._ _

__“There’s no way I can apologize enough.”_ _

__“Don’t worry about it. I should’ve remembered that you don’t believe in otherworldly things unless the evidence is smashing you over the head, or biting into your side, or transforming your entire body.”_ _

__“It doesn’t make any sense.”_ _

__“Of course not. How could there be ghosts, even though there are werewolves, banshees, kitsunes, wendigoes, and whatever the hell Parrish is?”_ _

__Scott reaches forward, meets an icy blast of air as he tries to hold onto Stiles. “You can’t be a ghost.”_ _

__Stiles rolls his eyes dramatically, ignores the fact Scott’s hand doesn’t go through his wrist, but hovers near it. “How ridiculous a notion in a world where people can create ash barriers to keep out other more fanged people, and some dude could plug himself into a computer, and there’s a big ol’ nasty stump in the middle of the forest that attracts ne’erdowells to Beacon Hills---”_ _

__“No, Stiles, you can’t be a ghost because you’re not dead.”_ _

__“What? Of course I am. Look how see-through I am.” Stiles waves a hand around to demonstrate._ _

__Scott wants to pull him close and never let go. “Your body’s lying in a vegetative state in Beacon Hills Memorial Hospital. I know because I visit you almost every day. Your dad’s been working up the courage to have you taken off life support because the doctors say there’s nothing that could be done. But they’re wrong, aren’t they? You’re not dead, you’ve just been separated somehow. Where do you go when you’re not here?”_ _

__Stiles’ expression goes completely blank. There’s no emotion registering on his face, not a wrinkle or a tremor. Scott’s never seen him like this and it’s frankly terrifying. Stiles is always expressive, usually over the top, sometimes to mask how he’s truly feeling. He’s never been empty before._ _

__“I don’t know,” Stiles says eventually, carefully. “It’s like I’m sleeping. Sometimes I’m here and you can’t see me? That’s the worst.”_ _

__“As you’ve rightly pointed out, you know more about this kind of stuff than me. If you’re not dead, but your spirit’s here, what could it be?”_ _

__“Astral projection.”_ _

__“So all we need to do is combine you again. I’m gonna go find Deaton. Wanna see if you can come too? Have you ever tried to leave before?”_ _

__Stiles still seems muted, far away. “I have, but I haven’t succeeded.”_ _

__“Who knows? This time you might.”_ _

__Scott had forgotten what hope feels like. It’s a burst of energy under his skin, a rapid, overwhelming sense of purpose and confidence. He’s been living in despair for months, but now he has direction, now he has something to fight for._ _

__“What if the doctors are right? What if nothing can be done? Think I’ll stay like this when the machines are switched off?” Stiles asks, standing still, crossing his arms, and flickering in and out of view._ _

__“That can’t be true,” Scott says simply. “I won’t let it.” He goes to hold Stiles again, this time around his upper arms. He resolutely doesn’t flinch as his fingers turn icy. “I’m not giving up again. Not on you. Not on us.”_ _

__“You’re seriously the sexiest when you go all heroic and determined,” Stiles replies. He quirks an eyebrow, as if he’s expecting Scott to react a certain way._ _

__Scott smiles. Judging by Stiles’ tilted head, that wasn’t what he was anticipating. “I’m glad you think so.”_ _

__*_ _

__Stiles makes it as far as Scott’s front door, but then he’s stuck staring forlornly as Scott waits on the other side of the veranda. The arm he stretches past the doorway disappears from sight. Scott makes some promises he probably shouldn’t be making and rides to Deaton’s house with something fizzing in the pit of his stomach._ _

__He knocks on Deaton’s door nine times before it’s opened._ _

__“What do you know about astral projection?”_ _

__“Scott?” Deaton says, squinting. “It’s four a.m.”_ _

__“Good morning, Dr. Deaton. What do you know about astral projection?”_ _

__Deaton moves aside and waves Scott in, his usually calm exterior noticeably frazzled._ _

__“Why are you asking?”_ _

__“Because I’m 100 percent sure that’s what Stiles has been doing and I want to know if we can unite his astral body with his physical one.”_ _

__Deaton takes a deep, exhausted-sounding sigh and pulls out two dining chairs. “Stop right there and start again from the beginning.”_ _

__Scott tells Deaton most things. Not everything. There’s a whole anecdote he’s going to keep for himself and Stiles alone, but he tells him when Stiles typically appears, tells him what Stiles has described. Deaton listens, lips curving down and then pressing up into the tight, thin line he uses when he’s being enigmatic. Scott trusts him implicitly, but sometimes he wishes he were more forthright._ _

__“This is the work of the nemeton,” he says when Scott’s finished. “If I’m not mistaken it’s because of the bond you, Stiles and Allison made to stop Julia Baccari. He’s caught between two existences, but this one has the greater hold on him.”_ _

__“Okay, so how do we stop it from happening?”_ _

__“I’m not sure yet. I have an idea, but I don’t want to speak too soon. Let me check my sources.”_ _

__“Could I help?” Scott asks, half-standing._ _

__Deaton gestures for him to sit back down. “You wouldn’t know what to look for. Why didn’t you tell me all of this before, Scott?”_ _

__“It didn’t occur to me that I could have any kind of good luck. I thought I was imagining him,” Scott says, because it’s past 4 in the morning and he’s tired of being stoic and durable. At some point he needs to be honest._ _

__Deaton nods. He expected this answer. Occasionally, Scott thinks he expects everything, but is honor-bound by some inexplicable code not to say anything. He remembers Stiles once suggesting he’s a time traveler and starts weighing up the likeliness. It’s possible he’s desperately in need of sleep._ _

__“You should go home,” Deaton says. “Get some rest. I’ll let you know when I’ve got all the information I need.”_ _

__“But you think you can help, don’t you?” Scott checks. He may or may not accidentally flash his Alpha eyes._ _

__“Yes, Scott, I think I know what we need to do.” Deaton gives him a small, bittersweet smile. “For once, I think you’ve been granted something other than misfortune and strife.”_ _

__Scott rides back home, his shoulders not as hunched, his back not as bowed as it was before. When he walks into his room, Stiles is there, pretending to pick at his comforter. Scott wants to kiss him. Realizing that some day soon he may actually get to, has him grinning so hard Stiles asks him if he’s finally lost touch with reality._ _

__“Maybe,” he admits. “But I’m surprisingly okay with that.”_ _

__

__*_ _

__It’s easy, in the end. No one will let Scott blame himself, but he does, because it’s _so easy_ and could have happened months ago. When Scott tells the others, they gather around and hug him and he doesn’t get it, doesn’t understand why they don’t tell him to go to hell, but he isn’t going to complain and demand that they do. _ _

__All it takes is two identical talismans that they’ve sanctified at the nemeton. Some of Scott’s blood, some of Stiles’, and some of Chris’ in lieu of Allison’s. Scott wishes it could have been this simple to bring Allison back. He doesn’t say it. He keeps that thought locked up tight behind his ribcage, but that doesn’t make it any less true._ _

__Sitting by Stiles’ side, Scott sucks in breath after breath. Deaton’s placing the talisman in his house so that he can be here when Stiles awakens. John’s across the bed from him, his mom’s outside the door keeping watch. The rest of his pack is in the waiting room. He can sense their presence and hones in on it to keep himself under control._ _

__Stiles begins to frown before anything else happens. Then his fingers twitch. When his eyes do flutter open he’s looking at his dad, who’s already crying._ _

__“Hi Dad,” he says, voice rusty and disused._ _

__John pats his hand, looking raw in a way that makes Scott feel like he’s intruding. “Hello, son.”_ _

__Stiles smiles weakly, turns his head. “Yo, Scotty, how’re you doing?”_ _

__“I’m good, how about you?”_ _

__Stiles gives an exaggerated wink. “I’m still going.”_ _

**Author's Note:**

> (He squeezes Scott's fingers tight. "By the way, you totally owe me a handjob.")
> 
> *I tagged this Mildly Dubious Consent because of Scott convincing himself Stiles wasn't really there, and Stiles not being aware of this.


End file.
